I know what you might be thinking. Any time that a girl uses the word “big” and associates it with a man, the first thought is that she must truly be referring to the size of our penis. What else could it be? On the other hand, there is the dreaded “big teddy bear,” which in lies the problem that you are nothing more than a cuddly, wuddly safe friend who in our male psyche we do not always grasp and still believe that even a teddy bear can get laid. The truth is that when this mujer stated the words to me, “You’re so like my big …”, she was referring to the television bible for women of the last decade – Sex and the City (SATC).

My reactionary internal monologue – “%^&$! that god damn whore of a show and the incurable STD it gave this city.”

Yes, I know who Mr. Big is in that dreaded show. Just like all good soldiers I was dutiful and watched this crap over the course of its never ending run through the scores of SATC influenced girls I dated. Not only was I dutiful, but three steps ahead of the game on female counter intelligence operations. I usually save this for the end, but here is a quick piece of advice: Watch the show, plus the two movies. On top of that, make sure every time you are at the doctor’s office or at any location where females are the primary customer, read Cosmo. Do you think I am crazy? I am not fucking joking around with this. Cosmo, was the old SATC and in a strange universe, they’re both one in the same. The array of misinformed, subjective and irrational advice given in that monthly rag, coupled with a decade of Carrie Bradshaw and her inconceivable escapades have transformed the landscape of rational (if there ever was such a thing) expectations women (girls) expect of men (not boys).

Look, we can get into a whole debate about how that show empowered women across the country (especially carpetbagging transients who moved here from middle-America in search for the glamorous city life,), but this kind of crazy manifestation of a new breed of women has nothing to do with the show being a top-notch production. It was, I tip my cap to that. It’s about the drowning effect it had on millions of women who are between the ages of 25-40 in present day. It created a false sense of reality. It made all of us fellas into living, breathing embodiments of all the male characters in that show. It made us men to be fictional beings. And for an unknown percentage of the women who watched the show, it turned them back into little girls in search of the great knight on his white horse. I’ve dated a lot of these women retarded into girls, but it was this one particular Big incident that made me realize I had two choices: 1) Either be her “Big” and let her ride out the fantasy, or 2) Convince her I am not “Big”, but I’m better than him and I’m real.

So yes, I know very well who Big is, but I still have no idea what that fucking means to this day. Do you? Maybe you can help out on this one. Here are my quick theories on what the incarnations of real world “Bigs” are:

Big 1: I’m a perpetual commitment-phobe. When the kitchen gets to hot, I toss her a fire extinguisher and dash for the nearest fire escape. I’m never around when she needs him. I’m sensitive to her cries at night, but only from a phone call or text away – never in person. I just don’t want anyone controlling my life. I am not cheater, but I need eternal autonomy and distance when I please.

Big 2: Charming. Dashing. Loving. Shares all my adventures with her. Make her feel as if she is the only girl in the world. Tell her she’s the most perfect thing he has ever met in my life, but … I won’t ever get married.

Big 3: I’m in love with women. Not one, but many. She wants me to be just in love with her, but she cannot change me. She knows I am this way, but will refuse to leave me. She hates me and she loves me equally. I can only show love for her, but she cannot understand how I can love so many. I must just hate her.

Big 4: I love her. I want marriage, but not now. I want children, but not now. I want to divert my energy from my career to my future wife, but it’s not time yet. I don’t want, think or flirt with the idea of another, but she tells me that can’t be because I am a man. I believe we live slow, beautiful lives, but we are moving too fast now for that to be. I love her and will marry her, but just not now, therefore I don’t really love her enough.

The truth is all of those versions of “Big” have a lot of truth in how these girls, maybe even women, see us. It’s their projections of how they want us to be so their insecurities, fears and emotions remain unhinged by the reality of a real guy in the world. You see, the television show ended with Carrie quietly winning over Big over the course of many years, therefore never having to doubt that he may still have been one of those guys mentioned above that will do nothing more than break her heart. It’s that fairy tail many girls want to live.

It’s the tail that beauty can control the beast, with one major difference in the stories. Beauty never changed who the Beast was, she just unveiled the real him. Carrie did end up changing Big, which only will lead to one thing … the return of the real Big.

I said above that I had two choices: 1) Either be her “Big” and let her ride out the fantasy, or 2) Convince her I am not “Big”, but I’m better than him and I’m real. I chose number 2 and that eventually led to the end, but she still does contact me. Why? Because this “Kind of Crazy” is the fairy tale kind who will forever see her life as the greatest drama ever told in story. Your choice is whether you can handle the crazy of a fictional tale for the sake of love or show her that non-fiction is a much better story because it hasn’t been written yet.

Background Check: Mini-Carrie Bradshaw also ended up being a fan of another great work of art, Grey’s Anatomy. Drama knows drama.

Do you have a “That’s Kind of Crazy” you want to share? Spill it and we’ll tell it.

I call her Little Miss Manners (She’s a loaded cannon of fucktarded contradictions and will come up in future episodes). I based her name after those Little Miss books from the ’80s my sister would collect – I now associate a lot of them with grown women who carry the same peculiar traits.

What still leaves me bereft of comprehension is how well groomed her public performances, I mean appearances, were and yet how unabashedly filthy this girl was under the sheets, behind closed doors … in the back of a cab. This one was (is) a special kind of crazy and I think she represents more than a justifiable amount of women out there who believe that decorum isn’t only exercised on the floors of military galas, but in every fucking aspect of her life. That is, for everything except the bedroom. She abides by that age old sports locker room, military barracks meets Catholic church policy also known as the “don’t ask, don’t tell” motto.

Let me help you understand to what level of “don’t ask, don’t tell” Little Miss Manners executed this bipolar mantra:

The Action: Post-dinner at one of the wonderful gastronomic spots in Tribeca, we dart over to the piers to meet friends for more drinks. I’m suited up, she’s looking remarkably perfect and everyone we are schmoozing with admires no more than an occasional peck on her cheek from me. Little do they know what comes next in our timeline will deliver several sexual health violations. The cab ride to her place of work turned into a ride through Times Square where I found myself pants off, ass up and her heels in the air while Mr. Cabby thought it would be a benefit to him and the innocent tourists in the city to experience what all New Yorkers do in cabs regularly – fuck. This led to her office that officially reinforced my belief in a greater being and that porn does exist in real life … She asked for a “pearl necklace” on her office floor.

The Reaction: Jump to a couple of days later where I now feel as if I have reached a much deeper understanding of who this woman is, what she likes and how we conduct our business.

Phone call from me to her – Me: “Hey babe. How are you? I can no longer look at a cab in the same way.” Her: “What are you talking about?” Me: “I wonder who’s vacation photos we will end up in after the trip down great white way. Anyway, you looked beautiful the other night. And I feel bad for wrecking the office.” Her: “Um, what are you talking about. What happened in the cab? Please don’t address my office as if it is a free for all …” Me: “Uh, I’m just saying it was a great evening. Pearls and all.” Her: “I have a client coming in, but let’s grab dinner later! muah. bye!”

I spent the rest of the day wondering if I dreamed the entire night. Were we that wasted? Did she not remember? Shit, maybe she didn’t like one bit of it. I was baffled. And then the craziness ensued. After multiple months of dating, intimacy and continuous porn sex, the aftermath that ensued when I casually offered a wink or at times abruptly stated my dirty approval was always received by the same amnesiatic responses:

“What do you mean?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Excuse me?”

I came to the self-conclusion that it’s possible I was either hallucinating, blacking out or simply losing my mind. That was until this convoluted illuminating sentence came out of her mouth while sitting on the couch after I gently whispered in her ear some not for Sunday school thoughts, “Shhhhhhhhhh. Stop it. Do you not understand? Don’t ask me, don’t tell me. I don’t do those things. They don’t happen. You have me confused for someone else. ”

What came after was another fine romp in the sack and a morning break-up by me.

The question for you is this: Why? Why would I give up someone who was a lamb by day, wolf by night? Or is it lady by day, whore by night? You get the drift. We fellas spend all of our waking hours dreaming of a woman you can bring home to mom, marry and still have the ability to make YouPorn with, but is there is a limit to that multiverse. Is Little Miss Manners an example of that limit? For me, yes, but if a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy is your style then my advice is to make sure you have at least one good “girl”of a friend in life that is your acting dirty-story soundboard advocate to spill all of your guts to after the act.

Background Check: After further investigation, it was discovered that Little Miss Manners wasn’t so button-lipped after all. Thanks to her best friend (girls are so loyal), it was noted that not only were the sexcapades shared, but they were full-detailed monologues … delivered in public spaces.

Do you have a That Kind of Crazy story to share? Tell us and we’ll make you one of our next episodes.

Cheers,

The Unsung Romantic

Check out “Sex Diaries” in New York Magazine, real life sex stories from New Yorkers.

Maybe this is the kind of crazy you want? A girl who is admittedly convinced that it is possible to be in love with more than one guy at a time – or more. Before we summarize the story of Kinky Double-Lover (KDL), let’s always remember our task at hand with each episode: To find out what kind of crazy is just the right amount to make you want to lose your mind for her, forever. I’m not quite there yet.

So I met KDL online under the masquerade that is Match.com. I’ll be honest, online dating is a shitload of fun, if only for the sole reason that the majority of women and men patrolling the menu pages of specimens already have severe issues dating in a traditional, conventional way. I also have an underlying theory that many of the people on Match.com have severe sexual fantasies, repressions and primal needs they mask with the task of meeting your perfect match to live happily forever after with … It is possible.

The thing with a polymorous individual is that there is a constant need for attention (sexual and emotional). Most of the time, if the male grants her with both of these stimulus packages she is unable to handle what she states she wants. So, for you as the guy, you either have to be the one to fuck her or not-to-fuck her. Unless you can find the ability to role play every couple of months into both male figures.

How did it play out with Kinky Double-Lover? Within the span of a year, we met online, went on our first date and decided it be prudent to go on a second date where the inevitable happened – We had sex. Not just any sex, but the kind of sex that automatically brands this new relationship as we are only here to fuck. Then the ultimate-inevitable thing happened – she said after texting away furiously on her phone by our fourth date, “So I just broke up with my ex-boyfriend … ” “What do you think?” This is where I first thought as the alpha-male that I was so damn good I made this girl break up with her boyfriend, which was instantly followed by me saying, “What boyfriend?” and “So, what do you want me to do now?” What I learned was that apparently she loved the way we fuck and the taste of my dick so much more than anyone before (a line she had rehearsed very well, with very many).

But here is the real truth as we fast forward one year into the future …

Over the span of twelve months, KDL broke up with me twice, said she loved me twice, got back together with me twice and at the 10th month anniversary, broke up with me a third time after an impromptu trip to Italy just after Christmas all because she was now madly in love with my Italian counterpart who had a similar name, similar job, similar age, was an ex-boyfriend and best of all – had a similar fucking-style. So similar that in a surprise email via Facebook from my arch nemesis, I found out that she had professed her love for him and me in a very convoluted double-life she was living by telling us exactly word for word these beautifully recited lines, “No one fucks my ass like you. No one. God, I love you. I could marry you.” Here is the best thing we found out after joining forces in a cooperative investigation – When KDL was saying I love you to him, she was asking me to throw her against the wall and (fill in the blank). When that got old, she would swap our roles and we’d be the fun-loving just hang out, cuddle team who would speak of a future together while she was sex-skyping Mr. Italy.

When either one of us reminded her that we could fulfill her need to be loved and be fucked like a loveless creature at the same time (gasp), she exploded into a violent storm of denial telling the other that we did not fulfill one of those elements. So in the end, she broke up with him and then, I broke up with her, leaving her to create another paradox relationship of two guys and a girl in a galaxy far-far-away.

The thing is, KDL is the polyamorous fantasy of a girl every guy sometimes dreams of. The one that wants to just be cuddly and leave you to fucking others one month, while the next she is begging for you to fuck her until she bleeds (literally) and no one else. And the best thing is, she never, ever asked me, nor him if we had other affairs going on.

The question for you is this: Do you have what it takes to tell your ego that cuddle-fucker is most likely now and forever in search of filling continuous separate voids of sex and love? And that no matter how good you are in bed, or how much love you profess, it will never be enough for her. She will always somehow and somewhere have another kinky double-lover hidden under the sheets. If that’s your crazy, my advice is to check your emotions at the door as hard as it may be and keep your #2, #3 and more on speed-text up until the ripe age of death.

Background Check: After further investigation, it was also revealed that polyamorous KDL is a Korean-Adoptee. We will cover the particulars of adoptees, Korean girls and Asian girls as a whole in future stories.

Do you have a story about what your “That Kind of Crazy” is? Spill it, brother.